


The Dragons' Dance

by RoseAlenko



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 15:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10441044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAlenko/pseuds/RoseAlenko
Summary: My answer to the drabble prompt on tumblr, "How long have you been standing there?" for Jon & Dany. This got a bit long so I decided to post it here, too :)Fluffy jonerys at a ball. Enjoy.





	

"How long have you been standing there?"

The question jolted Jon from his reverie and he glanced over to see his sister smiling coyly, taunting him. He hadn’t noticed Sansa walk over to meet him, lost in his own thoughts amidst the bustle of the ball, the press of people filling Dragonstone’s Great Hall to capacity.

“What else would you have me do?” he asked her, shrugging.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sansa gestured dramatically at the grand spectacle of it all, indicating the couples dancing on the well-polished floor all around them. “I suppose _dancing_ never occurred to you?”

Jon scoffed. “These highborn ladies have no interest in dancing with a Northern bastard.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re more than that, and you know it. ‘The King in the North whose name is Stark,’” Sansa recited, stepping in front of him to command his attention, her steely blue eyes finding his. “And you’ve got more than your fair share of willing partners,” she added, nodding almost imperceptibly toward the back corner of the room.

Jon glanced over to see little Lady Lyanna Mormont regarding him from across the hall, her eyes shining with admiration. When she noticed him looking her cheeks burned redder than crabapples and she turned away hastily.

Jon couldn’t help but smile. He liked the plucky little girl. She reminded him of Arya. In his little sister’s continued absence, it was a comfort to have someone to look after—although, truthfully, Lady Mormont seemed more than capable of looking after herself.

“You ought to ask her to dance,” Sansa urged. “It doesn’t look good, you brooding away over here while everyone else is making friends. Remember why you’re really here. You need alliances from the North and South alike, Jon.”

He sighed in resignation. She was right, of course. She ordinarily was in these instances, being better versed in court intrigue than he was or wished to be. Jon was about to comply when Sansa continued, her words stopping him short.

“Unless, of course, you have _another_ partner in mind.” She moved back to Jon’s side, leaving his view of the dance floor unobstructed. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“Who is?” he asked; but it was all a farce. Sansa knew. _Of course_ she knew.

“You don’t need to play the fool with me, Jon,” she said quietly. The Dragon Queen’s ball was evidently an opportunity for Daenerys Targaryen to get to know her new Southern lords bannermen. Jon and his retinue had arrived from the North a week before seeking dragonglass, and were still guests in her home. The queen had graciously included them in her soiree and sent an invitation to Sansa at Winterfell as well.

Jon felt glad of it, then. However often he bickered with his sister, he was grateful for her trust and companionship in this unfamiliar setting.

He turned back to the dancers, his eyes finding the couple he’d been watching when Sansa had interrupted him before. “Yes,” he admitted finally, his eyes following Daenerys across the floor. “She _is_ lovely.”

The queen was resplendent this evening, captivating. Her long hair hung in loose curls instead of the intricate braids she ordinarily wore. The steps of the dance brought her in an out of the light from the giant, candle-laden chandeliers overhead. Their glow made a rainbow of her shimmering locks, red as dragon’s flame one moment, and cool, icy silver the next. Her dress was boldly cut, leaving her back and shoulders bare, her exposed skin brazenly inviting roving eyes. The fabric of the gown, a deep, bloody crimson befitting a Targaryen monarch, clung to every one of her generous curves before fanning out into an impressive skirt that swept across the floor as she danced.

Something her partner said elicited a surprisingly girlish and youthful giggle and Daenerys stopped dancing, covering her mouth with her hand. Apparently, Yara Greyjoy was very amusing. They were both rubbish dancers—something which came as a surprise to Jon. He didn’t know much about court but he thought that all princesses and queens must have been instructed in dancing at some time. Regardless, the inelegant pair didn’t seem to be hampered by stepping on one another’s feet. The two of them had been causing quite a stir. A woman leading another woman in a dance was incredibly scandalous; but true to her daring personality, Daenerys seemed completely unbothered by the scrutiny of her court.

The song ended and Yara, dressed in a sleek, black leather doublet and breeches bowed low, planting a kiss on Daenerys’s hand before escorting her off of the dance floor. They stopped only a short distance from where Jon and Sansa stood. Yara excused herself and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Danaerys momentarily alone as she poured herself a glass of fragrant summer wine.

“Now’s your chance,” Sansa hissed urgently, shoving Jon in the direction of the queen. For all his quick reflexes and fighting instincts, Jon barely had time to react as Sansa’s unexpected strength propelled him toward the queen. He stumbled involuntarily forward amongst a group of other men, the perfumed lords already approaching Daenerys in the hopes of being her next partner.

She glanced up at their approach, her gaze moving right past the others; they might as well have been made of air. Her singular, lilac eyes settled on Jon and a broad grin graced her pretty face. She set her wine down on the banquet table behind her and addressed them politely. “My Lords,” she said courteously to her would-be suitors, dropping into a curtsy. Before anyone could ask her for a dance she rose with a rustle of her silk gown and pushed past them, halting in front of Jon.

“Jon Snow,” she began, arching a brow. “I haven’t seen you dancing once all evening. Are you not enjoying my hospitality?”

He was at a loss. Was she scolding him? By all appearances Daenerys seemed to be _teasing_ him, but what kind of queen would play at jokes with a Northern bastard in the presence of her noble guests?

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, searching for the right response. A glance over Daenerys’s shoulder revealed Sansa, her elaborate green dress and shock of fiery hair were easily distinguishable in the crowd. His sister was desperately trying to mouth advice to him from a distance, but he could not decipher any of it. Jon smirked at Sansa’s enthusiasm, feeling emboldened by her presence and encouragement, and by the fact that the queen—this breathtaking woman who had tamed dragons and crossed oceans—had approached _him_.

“I’ve been waiting for the right partner,” he explained to Daenerys at last.

A faint blush stole across her cheeks. “Oh?”

“Yes,” he murmured, searching her face for a sign of reluctance, and finding none. “I think I found her.”

Daenerys’s radiant grin widened as she nodded her assent. 

Jon’s nerves threatened to get the better of him then, his blood pounding in his ears so hard it nearly drowned out din of the crowded hall. But as if on cue, the music began again and he bowed slightly, offering his hand.

The queen placed her small hand in his as Jon led her to the dance floor with the other couples. The dance was uncomplicated and not particularly intimate. Yet each time the steps brought them together, each press of palm to palm, each whisper of Jon’s fingertips across the smooth flesh of her back, created a crackle of electricity between them. His prior hesitation was replaced with palpable excitement. Daenerys was surprisingly easy and pleasant company, and in spite of all of his troubles—the looming threat, the doubt he harbored about his own ability to lead —Jon was surprised to find himself relaxing by degrees. He was having _fun._

Daenerys appeared to be enjoying herself as well, her face flushed from wine and revelry. “I’m surprised, my lord,” she said breathlessly. “You’re quite the capable dancer.”

“Well,” he replied, his eyes dancing mischievously. “That makes one of us.”

For a moment the queen’s lovely face hardened with a chilly indignation. But the light in Jon’s playful smile melted her ire away and she grinned demurely up at him.

“Very well, Jon Snow. Insult me again and I’ll feed you to my dragons,” she winked. “But I suppose I need to keep you around to teach me to dance. Who would have thought that _you_ would instruct _me_?”

“Is it so surprising?” 

“I suppose I just didn’t imagine you would have much occasion for dancing, being a—”

“Bastard?” he finished for her through gritted teeth.

“A man of the Night’s Watch,” she corrected in a small voice.

“Oh.” Jon was mortified, floundering. “Well. I—I used to practice with my little sister, Arya. She hated it, but our septa wouldn’t rest until she improved. So I helped her. That’s, um … why I can dance.”

Daenerys nodded thoughtfully. “I thought your sister’s name was Sansa,” she mused, her eyes sweeping the hall and settling on Sansa in the distance, who was dancing skillfully in the arms of a very nervous-looking Podrick Payne.

Jon followed her gaze, his eyes brightening at the sight of her with Podrick. Jon had grown to like the young man during his brief stay at Winterfell. He doted on Sansa with an endearing sort of devotion. It was good for her. “Yes,” he answered after a moment, turning back to his own partner. “That is Sansa. Arya was my little sister. She’s gone, now. Or at least, we suspect she is.”

“I lost my brothers, too,” Daenerys offered. “It isn’t easy.”

 _She's suffered so much,_ Jon thought to himself. It was easy to forget that the devastation of the past few years wasn't isolated to what his family, his "brothers," his corner of the world had endured. Grief and hardship had stretched across the Narrow Sea to get their hands on Daenerys as well. “Don’t we make a great pair?” he remarked, smiling grimly.

They moved together in silence for a moment, but then Daenerys spoke up, her hand tightening on Jon’s shoulder. “Yes. Yes, I believe we _do_ make a great pair.”

Jon’s felt a strange lump rising in his throat at the sincerity in her sweet voice. Gazing down at Daenerys, the rest of the room seemed to dissolve into vapor. Her clumsiness of before had vanished, and they danced with a graceful, effortless rhythm. It seemed impossible for him to feel so at ease with a queen in his arms, yet here she was.

The song ended and they broke apart reluctantly, Jon bowing to match Danaerys’s curtsy before she strode away.

She cast a last, lingering look at him over her shoulder as she went, and he was seized by a mad urge to chase after her and beg her to dance with only him for the rest of the evening. Jon shook his head, in awe of his own sudden, imprudent fervor.

They’d only just met, but already he felt that Daenerys Targaryen’s warmth could fend off the harshest chill Winter had to offer.

**Author's Note:**

> **I am not in love with this piece so I hope y'all like. It is a little more fanciful and implausible than I would like but I wanted to write something happy and simple. Thanks for reading! All feedback welcome <3**


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